Probably more barbers have become doctors than any other artisans, for the reason that barbers were formerly nearly the only acknowledged “blood-letters.” In the earlier days of Abernethy, barber surgeons were recognized, and the great doctor said of himself, “I have often doffed my hat to those fellows, with a razor between their teeth and a lancet in their hands.” Doubtless some of them arrived to usefulness in the profession. Dr. Ambrose Paré, a French barber surgeon, was called the father of French surgery, and enjoyed the confidence of Charles IX. An eminent surgeon of London was Mr. Pott. He was contemporary with Dr. Hunter, and gave lectures at St. Bartholomew Hospital in Hunter’s presence. Some person asking a wag one day where Dr. Hunter was, he replied that, “with barber surgeons he had gone to pot.”

This alliance of surgery and shaving, to say nothing of other qualifications with which they were sometimes associated, conceivably enough furnished some pretext for apprenticeships, since Dickey Gossip’s definition of

“Shaving and tooth-drawing,
Bleeding, cabbaging, and sawing,”

was by no means always sufficiently comprehensive to include the multifarious accomplishments of “the doctor.” “I have seen,” says Dr. Macillwain, of England, “within twenty-five years, chemist, druggist, surgeon, apothecary, and the significant, ‘&c.,’ followed by hatter, hosier, and linen draper, all in one establishment.”

I saw in New Hampshire, in 1864, doctor, barber, and apothecary represented by one man.

William Butts, another barber surgeon of London, was called to attend Henry VIII., and was rewarded for his professional services with the honor of knighthood in 1512. Another, who was knighted by Henry VIII., was John Ayliffe, a sheriff, formerly a merchant of Blackwell Hall.

Royalty had a chronic habit of knighting quacks. Queen Anne became so charmed by a tailor, who had turned doctor, and who, by some hook or crook, was called to prescribe for the queen’s weak eyes, that she had him sworn in, with another knave, as her own oculist. “This lucky gentleman,” says a reliable author, “was William Reade, a botching tailor of Grub Street, London. To the very last he was a great ignoramus, as a work entitled ‘A Short and Exact Account of all Diseases Incident to the Eyes,’ attests; yet he rose to knighthood, and the most lucrative and fashionable practice of the period.” Reade (Sir William) was unable to read the book he had published (written by an amanuensis); nevertheless, aristocracy, and wise and worthy people at that, who listened to his dignified voice, viewed his pompous person, encased in rich garments, and adorned with jewelry and lace ruffles, cap-a-pie, resting his chin upon his enormous gold-headed cane, as, reclining in his splendid coach, drawn by a span of superb blood horses, up to St. James, considered him the most learned and eminent physician of that generation.

In the British Museum is deposited a copy of a poem to the great oculist. This poem Reade himself had written, at the hand of a penny-a-liner, a “poet of Grub Street,” immediately after he was knighted, which has been mainly instrumental in handing his name down to posterity.

Tinker as Doctor.

About the year 1705, one Roger Grant rose into public notice in London, by his publication of his own “marvellous cures.” This fellow was no fool, though a great knave. He was formerly a travelling tinker, subsequently a cobbler, and Anabaptist preacher. From tinkering of pots, he became mender of soles of men’s boots and shoes; thence saver of souls from perdition, a tinkerer of sore eyes, and lightener of the body. The following bit of poetry was written in 1708 for his benefit, the “picture” being one which Grant, who was a very vain man, had gotten up from a copperplate likeness of himself, to distribute among his friends. The picture was found posted up conspicuously with the lines:—